The Rambler Club's
Gold Mine

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S AEROPLANE"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S HOUSEBOAT"

Illustrated by the Author

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXII

COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

The Rambler Club's Gold Mine

THERE WAS MUCH WAVING OF HANDS

Introduction

The boys who appear in this story are those who had the adventures related in "The Rambler Club Afloat," "The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," and "The Rambler Club in the Mountains." They are now in the state of Washington, where we meet them just after the close of some lively weeks described in "The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks."

During a forest fire the boys have saved the life of Wanatoma, an aged Indian warrior, and he, out of gratitude, has imparted to them a secret long guarded—the location of a rich deposit of gold in the far-off mountains.

The boys determine to set out in search of "The Rambler Club's Gold Mine," as they call it, undaunted by the thought of possible dangers which the wilderness may have in store for them. Life amid the solitudes of nature, with only the sky as a canopy, has taught them the lesson that hardships and discomforts are sure to come, and must be met with a cheerful spirit.

During the journey both men and wild animals put their courage to a severe test. But each set-back arouses within them only a more determined spirit to conquer every difficulty.

In "The Rambler Club's Aeroplane," the next book, is related how the boys learned to use an airship and the many stirring adventures which befall them while navigating the air in Wyoming.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

Contents

Illustrations

The Rambler Club's Gold Mine

CHAPTER I

THE MAP

"Yes, fellows, I guess we're in for a lot more adventures; finding that mine isn't going to be so easy—mountains to climb, swift streams to ford, and—"

"Lots of wild animals between us and the gold, Bob Somers," finished Dick Travers, with a chuckle, as he shied a towel in the direction of stout Dave Brandon, who lay in his bunk, with one leg hanging over the side.

"And whoever imagined that good old Wanatoma, just because he thinks the Ramblers saved his life, would have given us his great secret, so that—"

"Listen to him," chirped little Tom Clifton. "Thinks!—thinks! Why, the Ramblers did save his life; isn't that so, Jacky Conroy?"

He turned toward a tall, athletic-looking boy sitting near the stove.

"No mistake about it, Tommy; that forest fire was almost the end of poor old Wanna. And the way he's acted about this gold mine shows he's made of the right stuff. Still—"

The big lad rose to his feet, began to whistle discordantly, and grinned as five pairs of scornful eyes were leveled toward him.

The boys were on a visit to Tim Lovell's uncle, a lumberman and mill owner whose logging camp was situated on the Columbia River in the state of Washington. At first Jack, who was a city boy, had found that roughing it was not altogether to his liking. There were many discomforts; bugs and other insects, both crawling and flying, seemed to have no manners whatever; and his nice white hands sometimes got sadly begrimed with dirt.

But, gradually, life in the deep forest among the lumberjacks had awakened another spirit within him—a determination to show his chums that he could, if he chose, be just as good a woodsman as they. With this dawning of a new feeling, his dislikes began to vanish—that is, when the weather wasn't rainy or cold and the boys didn't drag him too far away from camp.

The big lad's loud whistling was brought to an abrupt close by a pillow which thudded hard against him.

"Oh, you rude Tim!" he cried; and stout Dave Brandon smiled, as he watched his six friends sending the soft missile from one to another, and kept on smiling even when it collided violently with his head.

"For goodness' sake, Jack, don't have any more doubts," he drawled. "When you do, something nearly always hits me. What do I think? Don't think—I'm trying to sleep." He gave the pillow a mighty shove which sent it in a shapeless mass on the floor, and closed his eyes.

"As we were sayin'," grinned Jack Conroy, when a hearty chorus of groans had subsided, "it was mighty nice of the old Indian to do it; but, honest, I don't like to see you poor chaps goin' around thinkin' you'll be millionaires before the winter's over."

"You can't see us think," chirped Tim Lovell.

"Nor discover it, either—very often," said the big lad, witheringly. "Quit jokin', Timmy. Now, for savin' his life, old Wanna gives the crowd his mine; he's too old an' feeble to bother about it himself, he says. But—" He paused impressively.

"Well?" demanded Tim.

"Who knows whether it's really a gold mine or not? Maybe Wanna is mistaken—"

"Mistaken nothing!" snorted Tim. "Didn't we have the quartz in our hands? Didn't we see the yellow specks shinin' all through it like little stars in a cloudless sky?"

"Oh, my! What book have you been reading now?" asked Bob.

"Do you think that a real, live, bona fide Indian like Wanatoma could be mistaken?" persisted Tim. "You make me tired, Jacky Conroy."

The big lad came back to the attack with an exasperating grin.

"Supposin' there is a mine, are any o' you chaps really silly enough to imagine for eight seconds at a stretch that we can find it by that queer scrawl o' yours, Bob Somers? Looks to me like those Egyptian hiero—hiero—"

"Help him out, somebody—do," sniffed Tim.

"Hieroglyphics," came in sepulchral tones from the bunk.

"Score another for the literary boy," laughed Sam Randall. "Bet he even knows how to spell it."

"Jack's limit is nine letters," said Tim.

"See here, fellows," broke in Bob Somers, warningly, "we're making too all-fired much racket about this thing. Your voice isn't any gentle whisper, Jack; and if it should ever get noised about the camp that we're going off on a search for a gold mine, why—"

"The noise would become a perfect din of hurrying feet," interrupted Dick Travers. "No joking, Conroy. I don't know how many times you've been howling out loud, just as though you wanted to advertise the whole business."

"I'll bet there wasn't anybody around," growled Jack.

"But a chap can't always tell. And the idea of Conroy being sure about anything! Doesn't that jar you?"

"Something else will, if you keep up that line o' talk much longer."

"Trot out your map, Bob," went on Dick, with an air of scorn. "You may laugh, Jack, but we're crackerjack woodsmen. I know it seems hard to a chap who doesn't understand—"

"Cut it out!" howled Jack. "An' see here, Tommy Clifton, don't giggle like that again—mind now. Bring out your great gold mine map, Bob Somers, an'—"

"For goodness' sake, Jack, put a muffler on that voice," cried Dick, aghast; "curb it! Suppose Pete Colliver should be hanging around—or Ben Vincent—or Booney—or some of the men! Remember what Mr. Lovell told us—keep mum, mum, and mummer."

"Let's form the United Society o' Whisperers," scoffed Jack.

"Quit scrapping. Here's the map, fellows," interposed Bob.

He carefully spread out a sheet of brown paper upon a table in the center of the cabin, while Jack rudely elbowed the others aside.

"I'll let you see it one at a time," he announced, kindly.

Heavy lines traced the rude plan shown here.

The Map that Bob Drew

"Why, it doesn't look a bit like that Egyptian thing with a jaw-breakin' name Jack spoke about," remarked Tim, after a critical glance over Bob's shoulder. "I'd call it a picture of a tree in a hurricane."

"Or struck by lightning," suggested Tommy, squeezing in between the others.

"But it's plenty good enough for our purpose," said Bob, with a smile. "A represents our present position on the map; B the Columbia River; C our first stop;" he ran his finger along the lines; "D the direction we have to take; E one of the Cascade Mountains; and F, away around on the opposite side,"—he lowered his voice to a whisper—"a stream which flows down the slope—Wanna called it 'Gold Creek.' We have to follow its course until a big bend is reached, and there, marked on this map by an X, is located—"

"Whisper it," murmured Sam Randall.

"The Rambler Club's Gold Mine."

"Ah! That has a mighty fine sound, Bob."

"Now the problem is simple—"

"Corkin' simple," scoffed Jack. "Why on earth don't you make a problem in algebra out o' it? Let A, B, C, D, E, F represent the line o' most resistance, an' X—er—er—"

"Stuck again," laughed Bob. "We have to settle it on earth, Jack. Now, fellows, this sketch on the right gives an idea of the shape of the mountain."

"Draw it all yourself?" grinned Jack.

"Yes; Wanatoma supplied the description, and I furnished the motive power," laughed Bob. "He says we can't help recognizing it by the peculiar blunt top. How's this for a plan? Suppose we take a lumber schooner as far as C—that's a good-sized town—buy our outfit and horses and—"

"An' who's goin' to carry the grub?" broke in Jack, sarcastically. "Wee Tommy, here? Or is each fellow supposed to take along his own sandwiches an' canteen o' water, an' shoot at every bird or animal that pops into sight? Why, this gold mine is—"

"Sh-sh!" began Dick, warningly. "Don't, Jack; curb it."

"It's in the deep wilderness; an' if the bunch should ever get lost, sure as thunder it would be when there wasn't a speck o' grub within twenty-eight miles."

"Oh, float away, Jacky," put in Sam Randall, scornfully. "When you find the Ramblers lost just let me know. Since Bob Somers formed this club we've had all sorts of adventures in Wisconsin, Oregon and Wyoming, and aren't going to get lost in any Washington forest, eh, fellows? You and Tim don't know us yet. Go ahead, Bob; horses, you were saying? Then, of course, we'll need a couple of pack animals."

"Pack animals?" grinned Jack. "Maybe you mean pachyderms, Sammy?"

"Oh, you're really too funny for anything," broke in Clifton, whose forehead was still puckered into a fierce frown from Jack's allusion to "Wee Tommy."

"Well, boys, I move that we start day after to-morrow," went on Bob. "Hit the trail, and hit it hard, until we reach X."

A long-drawn-out groan, coming from the direction of the bunk, attracted general attention toward Dave Brandon.

"Well?" asked Bob.

The stout boy's eyes beamed quizzically.

"Only thinking, Bob," he answered.

"What about?"

"Well, don't you know, we really ought to be back in Kingswood now, deeply absorbed in the acquisition of knowledge?"

"Acqui-acqui-sition! You don't let any o' those big ones get by you, I notice," grunted Jack.

"Yes; we have already overstayed our time," went on Dave, "and this trip—"

"It'll only take a week or two," supplied Bob.

"And do you think for a moment, David Brandon, that we could do any studying without settling this thing first?" demanded Sam Randall. "Well, I rather guess not!"

"Then we must hurry it up, and get back to the high school as soon as possible. As it is, there's a lot of hard work before us in catching up with our studies."

"It won't be difficult, with nearly the whole term before us," said Dick, in positive tones.

"Education is the lever which uplifts the world," sighed Dave. "Now—"

"Switch off!" cried Jack.

"Such gems of thought are lost upon him," laughed Sam.

"Let's get back to business," said Bob. "We needn't expect to have any picnic on this trip." He glanced toward Conroy, whose face failed to indicate the slightest enthusiasm. "If you want to back out, Jack, now's the time."

"Who said anything about backin' out?" growled the big lad.

He walked off and threw himself at full length on a bench at the end of the cabin. His eyes began to rove over the cheerful interior. Somehow, it was just the sort of a den to fill any healthy boy's heart with delight. Seven bunks were built against the walls; two lamps suspended from the ceiling swung over the center table, while a number of tasteful prints were scattered about.

Jack felt that on a cold day, with the wind howling past the corners of the cabin, and the whirr and clank of the windmill blending in with the blasts, it would be a mighty pleasant place in which to stay. And yet here were these boys ready to leave its comforts and start off on a difficult and perhaps dangerous expedition with as much unconcern as though they were merely going on a visit to the sawmills at the base of the cliffs.

"I do wish to thunder old Wanna hadn't said a word 'bout that wonderful secret o' his," reflected Jack, his forehead knit into a frown. Perhaps, even if they did succeed in reaching their destination, it might be to have all their fond hopes dashed to the ground. "But still," the frown vanished and a quizzical smile played about the corners of his lips, "if stout, easy-going Dave Brandon is willing to take the risk—why—"

And just then his eyes caught sight of a youthful face flattened against the window-panes eagerly peering in at the group of boys who still surrounded the table, animatedly discussing their plans.

The pressing process had so weirdly distorted the already irregular features of the youth that Jack began to roar with laughter, whereupon the face suddenly vanished, and the next instant a terrific bang sounded on the door.

CHAPTER II

PETE IS AMUSED

"Pete Colliver!" gasped Bob Somers. Hastily he snatched up the map and stuffed it into a table drawer, while Tim Lovell sprang to the door, which was shaking under the repeated attacks of a heavy fist.

As it swung wide open, Pete's short, stocky figure was silhouetted sharply against the clear, cold light of the autumn day. A breath of fresh, invigorating air, just sharp enough to send the blood tingling through healthy veins, and laden with the pleasant scent of forest and field, swept in. Several brown and golden leaves, dancing merrily across the clearing, made straight for the sill and flitted inside the door, while through the crisp air came the chatter of a flock of swiftly-flying birds.

Pete Colliver's sun-tanned face wore an odd expression of injured innocence and indignation, and his eyes were blinking curiously.

"Wal, wal!" he exclaimed, in a deep, hoarse voice, "I was a-thinkin' mebbe ye wouldn't let me in. Never used to keep your door locked, did ye? Gettin' kind o' pertic'lar now, hey? What was the whole bunch doin' around that table?"

He stuffed his hands deep in his trousers pockets, and shot a swift glance at Jack's grinning face.

"Awful sorry to have kept you waitin', Mr. Colliver. Please accept our apologies, an' forget it," said the big lad, soothingly.

"Fine words, but they don't answer my question, feller."

"Great day, Pete, isn't it?" began Bob. "Suppose you just came in from the woods? How's work going on? Sit down. No—not tired? Well, I guess if any one of us had been swinging an axe as hard as you do, Pete, we'd be a bit weary, all right."

"Not to mention the hours—the awful long hours, I mean," put in Dick. "Why—honest—"

Pete regarded them calmly, and gave the back of his slouch hat, which always seemed on the point of falling off, a smart tap.

"I've been a-thinkin'," he remarked, slowly, "that I'll quit the camp for a while, an' mebbe," his blinking eyes swept the group, "you fellers wouldn't mind havin' me along with ye? Thar ain't nothin' what I don't know 'bout campin', an' as for shootin', when I p'int me gun at any warmint it's as good as cookin' over the fire."

"Goodness!" cried Tommy. "Look! Dave's actually fallen asleep. Hi, hi! Wake up, Dave! Hi, hi!"

"Well, did you ever?" roared Dick. "All the same, bet he's been having some dandy inspirations for that great book of his!"

"Inspershuns?" queried Pete, suspiciously.

"Oh, it's not a dangerous disease; you'll never catch it," grinned Jack; "none of these chaps ever did."

"Speak for yourself, Jack Conroy," retorted Tom, with a touch of indignation.

"Wal, this here holler don't answer no questions," said Pete, dryly. "Mind! I ain't beggin' to go; but if ye want a corkin' guide, say the word, an' I'll drop me axe any time like it was red hot."

"Well, the fact is," began Dick, "er—er—that is—"

"Yes, that's the idea exactly," supplemented Bob. "You see, if we needed a guide, Pete, we wouldn't want any one else but you. The crowd—"

"Don't be skeered; I won't hurt ye. Jist say what ye mean; an' I kin see what that is—ye don't want none o' Pete Colliver; an' Pete Colliver ain't a-gettin' down on his knees to beg ye, nuther; no, he ain't. Jist lock yer door arter I gits out, an' fix yer peepers on that 'ere table ag'in. An'"—he paused, his little eyes snapping curiously—"if ye say the word, I'll yank that snoozer out o' his roost in jist three seconds, eh?"

This kind offer was smilingly declined.

Pete turned on his heel.

"Not going, are you?" asked Bob.

"Not afore I tells ye somethin'," he answered, impressively. "I had a wrastlin' match this mornin' with big Jim Lawson, an'—"

"Who won?" asked Jack, mildly.

"Who won!" snorted Pete, with a fierce frown. "That's a fine question ter ask—now, ain't it? Ain't ye all felt me muscle? Did any o' ye ever see a stronger arm'n that, hey?" He held it out for inspection right under little Tom Clifton's nose, whereupon Tom stepped hastily back. "Ye ain't wery good on answerin' questions to-day; but there's an easy one fur ye."

"Not bad—not so bad," grinned Jack, "but a chap loses sometimes."

"Not with an arm like that he don't, young feller. In a couple o' minutes Jim was a-lyin' flatter'n that fat snoozer over there. An' d'ye know what Jim says?"

"We will in a second," murmured Jack.

"'Pete, ye ain't got yer eq'al in ther hull camp!'—them was his words. Come on outside, big un; I'll jist show ye how it's done."

"That makes the twenty-seventh time you've asked me, Pete," laughed Jack; "I'm countin' 'em. Haven't finished readin' my book on wrestlin' rules yet."

"Maybe some o' you'll have to try it one day," said Pete, ominously. "I'm a-goin'."

The boys watched his stocky figure disappear out the door, and pass slowly across the window, while the breeze flung back his loud tuneless whistling.

Then Dick, with a gesture of impatience, slammed the door shut.

"There! What did I tell you, Jacky?" he growled. "But, oh, no; you wouldn't listen. And now your hollering's done the business—Pete knows something, as sure as you live; anybody can see that."

"An' blame it all on me!" cried Jack. "Keep the door locked! Stand around the table like a lot o' ninnies! Get as flustered as a Jabberwock! An' just because Pete sees it imagine he knows all about our gold mine!"

"There he goes again!" wailed Dick. "Let's muzzle him, fellows. We ought to call that—that place some other name. The Jabberwock, eh?"

"Oh, you make me tired," sneered Jack. "Never saw such silly duffers."

"Come—come, fellows!" laughed Bob. "Too bad, if any harm's done, Jack," he added, severely. "If you speak those two words out loud again—"

"There'll be a speedy trial for the offender," laughed Sam, "and summary vengeance of a terrible sort will be wreaked upon him—hello—dinner time already?" He raised his voice: "That you, Booney?"

"'Deed it am, sar!" came an answering voice. "Shall I come in?"

"As far as you like!" yelled Dick.

The door swung open, and Daniel Boone King, a very dark spot in the landscape, stood on the threshold, grinning good-naturedly, and showing a row of dazzling teeth.

"I'se here, sar," he said.

"So our eyes have already told us, Daniel," chuckled Jack.

"An' de dinner am ready."

"A fact which our olfactory nerves have also perceived," remarked Bob, with a smile. "Dave—I say, Dave—dinner!"

"Wonderful thing what a few simple words like that will do," said Sam, as the stout boy sprang up with remarkable alacrity.

His round face beamed forth good nature; a whimsical light deepened in his eyes.

"That's a dandy! And just as I finished my beauty nap, too. Booney—"

"Yes, Mistah Dave."

"Is there plenty of those sweet potatoes and nice corn pone?"

"Yessir!"

"Good! But there won't be very long."

"Not when you're around, Mistah Dave," laughed Booney, as the door promptly slammed behind the group.

Over the air came a steady musical hum from busy sawmills far down on the beach, while columns of yellowish smoke rose lazily against a mass of pale white clouds.

The boys' wild dash across the clearing came to an end when Mr. Lovell, smiling genially, appeared in the doorway of his cabin.

Uncle Stanley was a tall, slight, active man, with a pointed beard. He wore glasses, which gave him quite the air of a college professor. His eyes beamed with a kindly light, while his voice had a cheery ring, which, from the first, had won him the hearts of the crowd.

"Well, boys," he said, "I suppose you are ready for dinner?"

"It won't have time to get cold," laughed Bob.

They hastily fell in behind him, and presently were seated around the table, in a pleasant little dining-room, surveying the good things to eat with great satisfaction. Nothing for which any healthy boy could wish seemed lacking, except pies, tarts and ice-cream. But Booney had made some kind of astonishing pudding, which, at any rate, tasted sweet, and a great quantity soon disappeared.

"I suppose your packing is all done, boys?"

There was a touch of sadness in Uncle Stanley's tone. He looked at the bright faces before him, and sighed at the thought of their parting so soon.

"Everything," answered Tim—"our guns, even, are oiled and polished."

Mr. Lovell pushed back his chair.

"I only wish I could go with you, lads," he said, slowly. "It pleases me to think, however, that in moments of danger you have already proven yourselves cool and resourceful."

Jack grinned complacently.

"Still, I wish to impress you with the fact that, while it is necessary to have the spirit and ability to conquer danger, it is far wiser to go forth with the determination to avoid it. Now, I suppose, none of you feels that it would be best to postpone your trip until the early spring, when—"

A chorus, in which Jack's voice was strangely feeble, assured him that they had not.

"Very well, then! But, boys, don't let your hopes run too high. Wanatoma's gold mine may prove a myth; or, perhaps, if it really does exist, the value may be small. You must, of course, be prepared for disappointment."

"Guess we'll be able to stand it all right," said Tim, with a grin.

"That is the proper spirit. And now, lads, I have a message for you."

"A message for us!" cried Tim.

"Yes; from our friend Captain Slater, the lumberman and former Columbia River skipper."

"Old Cap Slater!" gasped Jack.

"Yes, again. It seems that in spite of his rough exterior the captain has a warm spot in his heart for those he likes, and, much as it may surprise you, the crowd seems to have won his favor."

The boys looked at each other in astonishment, and Jack, quite forgetting his table manners, burst into a roar of laughter, while a chorus of exclamations ran around the table.

"Well, can you ever believe it!" cried Sam.

"An' he used to say such real rude things to us," chirped Tim.

"And was so sorry when we came here," laughed Bob. "I told him it was only because he didn't know us."

"That's exactly what the captain says." Uncle Stanley smiled genially, as his eyes ran from one to another. "He thinks you're a plucky lot."

"But he handed me out a few big knocks, though," grinned Jack.

"None this time, I assure you; he has quite reversed his opinion, and intends to come over and see you off."

"Bully for the Cap!" cried Tim. "He's not a bad old sort, after all!"

For some time they remained, talking over their plans with Tim's uncle, then trooped out, to roam idly about the clearing. The seven stopped for a moment in the long cabin used by the men and finally wandered over toward the edge of a high bluff, where they stopped to gaze at the always enchanting panorama of river and rugged shore. The broad Columbia stretched off, to finally become lost in a gray-purple haze.

Beyond the mills, and close in shore, a lumber schooner, piled high above the gunwales with short planks, lay at anchor, ready for her long trip down the river.

"Feast your eyes on the 'Osprey,' fellows," remarked Bob Somers; "Don Mason, Master."

"The staunch little craft which is to be entrusted with the precious cargo of Rambler boys," said Sam. "Say, it's pretty low in the water now; don't you think when Dave steps aboard it may be in danger of foundering?"

"Most likely there'll be nothing but groaning till she gets used to the additional strain," grinned Dave. "Mighty good of your uncle, Tim, to arrange it for us."

"You bet it was! Unk's a dandy."

"Doesn't look as if there was room for the crowd," sighed Jack, dismally.

"A thin affair like you doesn't need very much," quoth Tom, satirically. "Dave's the only one that counts. Hello—what's that?"

He pounced upon a roll of paper which had slipped from Dave Brandon's coat pocket, and, eluding the stout boy's outstretched hand, dashed away with a yell of triumph.

"Bet it's some of that great volume he's writing, fellows," he chuckled, gleefully. "Yes! Get away, Dave Brandon. Listen! Whew! What do you think? Pages 698 to—to—gee! 700! Did you get that—698 to 700?"

"Read it, slowpoke!" commanded Tim.

"Then keep him away."

"Go ahead," said Dave, good-naturedly. "My limit of resistance is four against one; you're six."

"Foxy lad," murmured Tom, keeping a good distance off. "Ah! First, is the heading, 'Life in a Lumber Camp'—sounds pretty fine, eh?"

"Read it!" yelled Tim.

"'In the dense, somber forest surrounding the clearing lumberjacks, with axe and saw, were hard at work. Donkey engines, by means of wire cables of great length, were dragging redwood trunks from the place where they had been felled over skid-roads to flumes which sent them rumbling down to the sawmills below.'"

"Great!" cried Dick. "Bully!"

"'The crack of ox-drivers' whips often echoed through the forest, as these slow-footed animals drew heavy vehicles, piled high with short logs, toward the timber slides.'"

"Wow!" quoth Sam. "Be-au-ti-ful!"

"'Altogether, life in a lumber camp must not only appeal to the lover of nature, but to those artistically inclined. Toward the dusk of evening, when—'"

A swift movement on Dave's part suddenly interrupted the reading. With a cheery laugh, the stout boy stepped back, stuffing his precious pages into an inside pocket.

"Oh, you rude thing!" sniffed the highly disgusted Tom.

"A thousand pities not to let us hear all of that perfectly lovely effusion," said Tim. "Come, Dave, that's a good chap, hand it out."

But no amount of withering comments, gentle persuasion, or direful threats had the least effect. So Jack Conroy merely sat upon Tommy, figuratively and actually, for being so easy.

There was nothing for them to do but patiently await the time when the "Osprey," Don Mason, Master, should weigh anchor. Jack Conroy and Dave Brandon were the only lads who didn't bubble over with enthusiasm, and long for the great moment to arrive.

That night, after the lamps in their cabin were lighted, Pete Colliver again pressed his face against the window-pane.

He was promptly admitted.

Pete immediately plumped himself down on the most comfortable chair, crossed his legs, and proceeded, by winks and extraordinary grimaces, to attract more than usual attention.

"Hello! Got anythin' in your eye, Pete?" asked Jack.

"Naw, young feller; there ain't nothin' what can even make 'em blink."

"Well, what's the matter?"

Pete's answer to this was a series of chuckles and other weird sounds even more astonishing than his facial contortions.

"If you could tell us where you feel the worst," suggested Tim, kindly, "why—"

Pete guffawed loudly.

"If there's anything on your mind, then"—Tim beamed pleasantly—"out with it."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Pete. "An' ye don't want no guide, hey? Don't have to go to—to Africa to git big game, do ye? Expect to bag somethin' whoppin'! Ha, ha!"

"Africa—Africa! Why, the extent o' your knowledge is simply surprisin'," murmured Jack.

Pete's grimaces and chuckles began again. Suddenly he burst into a roar of laughter, slapped his knees, then rose to his feet, while the deeply interested crowd stared at him in amazement.

"For goodness' sake, Peter," cried Bob, "tell us!"

"I was jist a-thinkin' o' somethin' kinder funny," explained Pete, "an' I guess ye don't need ter know nuthin' 'bout it."

"And after all our suspense!" protested Bob.

"How can you be so cruel?" added Sam.

"Peter is only jokin'," said Jack, hopefully.

"Not much he ain't, feller!"

Thereupon the whole crowd, with the exception of Dave, did their best to draw from the stocky boy the secret of his mirth.

But Pete could not be in any way cajoled, so they finally gave it up.

Presently, with a huge grin, he started toward the door, bade them good-night, and was gone.

The boys looked at each other inquiringly.

"Well," remarked Tim, drawing a long breath, "that chap certainly knows something, eh, Jack? Do you deny it?"

"How can a fellow deny what he doesn't know, you silly duffer?" demanded Jack, frowning fiercely.

"Now it's certain you've given the whole thing away!"

"Like fun I have!"

"You'll see! Most likely everybody in camp'll be taggin' after us."

"Oh, get out, Timmy; you've said just as much about Wanna's gold mine as I have."

Tim gave a gesture of despair.

"Can you beat it, fellows?" he wailed. "There he goes again—actually—after all the mess he's made, too. Help—help—I mean help needed to make Jacky forget those two fateful words."

"Oh, dry up!" howled Jack, wrathfully. "Remember what happened to Tommy."

"My regular job seems to be stopping a row every few minutes," laughed Bob. "If Pete does know our secret, scrapping about it won't do a bit of good."

"And no one can prevent us from finding—from finding that—er—er—Jabberwock," added Dick.

CHAPTER III

ALL ABOARD!

The day of departure had actually come at last. It was a beautiful morning, with a brisk, cool breeze sending white clouds scudding through the blue above, while the Columbia's broad surface was broken into choppy waves.

The boys' luggage—there wasn't so very much of it—lay piled in a corner. Guns and hunting knives gleamed brightly wherever stray beams of sunlight found their polished surfaces.

Just a few hours more! Jack Conroy stared rather gloomily around. The cozy cabin had never looked more inviting; strange how it seemed to have improved since the moment they decided to leave it. Dave, resting easily, with his feet stretched upon a chair, was busy scribbling something in his note-book. All the others were too excited and eager to stay in one place very long. They walked up and down, talking in low tones, making a tremendous effort to appear unconcerned, but without great success.

"Let's go over by the bluff," remarked Bob, presently. "Coming, fellows?"

"Guess you expect to see the 'Osprey' take wing and fly away," said Jack.

Leaving the literary boy struggling heroically with the muse, the rest walked out, kicking up the yellow leaves which were thickly strewn about.

For a long time they sat on a convenient log, their eyes often turning toward the "Osprey," whose black hull and tapering masts glowed one moment in light, then became cold and gray in the swiftly-flying shadows that skimmed across the landscape.

"Hi, hi—hello!"

Pete Colliver's tremendous voice suddenly reached their ears, and, upon turning quickly, they saw the youth approaching, with another lad a bit shorter lazily bringing up in the rear.

"Well, by Jove, it's Jimmy—Jimmy of Sellade!" cried Bob, shading his eyes from the sun's bright glare.

"So it is," agreed Tim. "Oh, joy! Cheer up, Jacky; Jimmy's comin'. Guess he's heard all about the—er—er—Jabberwock, too."

"An' I don't care if he has," grunted Jack.

The crowd had made the acquaintance of Jimmy some time before. As he came from Sellade, a town where the Columbia River steamers made a landing, they often referred to him as "Jimmy of Sellade." He, like his friend Pete, was a stocky, heavily-built lad, immensely strong, but clumsy and slow.

Jimmy's features were remarkably plain, while his expression changed about as often as that of an Egyptian Sphynx—at least, Sam Randall voiced this opinion.

"I hearn tell as you was a-leavin', fellers," exclaimed Jimmy, as he came within speaking distance, "an' I says to meself, 'I'll git over an' give 'em the hand-shake all 'round.'"

"Good boy!" said Bob, approvingly.

Pete Colliver was grinning broadly. He gave a loud chuckle, and poked his chum in the ribs.

"Mebbe they'd like to have ye as a guide, Jimmy," he said.

"I guess not," returned Jimmy, dryly. "I couldn't work fur nothin' less'n fifty cents a day; an' it might be a corkin' hard job ter help 'em lug the stuff they gits."

Dick felt sure that Jimmy's expression changed for the fraction of a second; therefore he scowled fiercely at Jack, and winked significantly.

"Whar's the fat un?" asked Jimmy, abruptly.

"Guess he's havin' some more inspershuns," said Pete; "but the big feller here says as how nobody else ever ketches it."

"Eh!" Jimmy gave a start. "What's them?"

"It isn't 'them,' it's 'it,'" gurgled Jack, "eh, Tommy? Near grub time, you say? Good! Yes, Jimmy, my lad, this afternoon—see here, Timmy, if you try to make a haystack out o' me again, maybe only six boys will go!"

Jack brushed away the bunches of tall grass which rested on his shoulder, punched Sam because he happened to be nearest, and answered the hail which came at that moment from Booney.

Some of the lads found it rather difficult to eat breakfast, but Dave Brandon wasn't among the number. There was a feeling of suppressed excitement which he didn't seem to share; even Bob was glad when the meal was over.

"I expect Captain Slater at any moment," said Uncle Stanley. "He told me he would surely be here."

"To think of the Cap actually takin' the trouble to see us off," murmured Tim; "ain't it odd?"

"And Jimmy of Sellade, too," laughed Dick. "Our cup of joy is brimming over."

In another half hour, Tommy, glancing out the window, espied the lumberman and former steamboat captain headed across the clearing, and the crowd, at a nod from Uncle Stanley, rushed out.

Captain Slater was stout, heavy-featured, gray-bearded, authoritative in manner, and quick to take offense.

"Rah, rah, rah for Cap Slater!" yelled Jack. "Now, boys—one, two, three!"

"Rah, rah, rah!" howled a chorus.

Their lusty yells brought Pete Colliver and Jimmy around the men's cabin on a run.

The lumberman came striding over, the effect of walking a considerable distance at a rapid rate causing him to mop his brow with a huge red handkerchief.

"Wal, my hearties!"—he greeted them in a gruff, heavy voice. "Actually ready to git—actually! Howdy, Lovell! Sorry to see 'em go, ain't ye?—declar' to thunder I am; an' that's somethin' Jere Slater never thought he'd be."

"Oh, we knew you would, all right," said Jack, with a grin.