The Gun Club Boys of Lakeport

“I never saw a fish exactly like that one. Is it a stickleback, or a hand-warmer?”

Fred did not answer, and Harry said no more, seeing that his chum did not relish the joke. Both baited up afresh, and this time Fred got a real bite, and landed a pickerel weighing close to a pound.

“Now you’re doing something!” cried Harry, heartily. “I’ll give in, you are the best fisherman, after all.”

“It was blind luck, Harry. You may – You’ve got a bite!”

Harry did have a bite, and the strain on the line told that his catch was a heavy one. He had to play his catch a little. Then it came up – a fine lake bass twice the size of the pickerel.

After this the sport continued steadily, until the young fishermen had fourteen fish to their credit. In the meantime it had grown quite dark, and the air was filled with softly falling snowflakes.

“I wonder if the others have got back to the lodge yet?” said Fred.

“It is not likely, Fred. That last shot we heard came from almost on top of the hill.”

“I hope they’ve had good luck. It looks now as if we wouldn’t be able to do much to-morrow.”

“Oh, this storm may not last. The wind isn’t in the right direction. We may – Hark!”

The boys stopped short in their talk, and both listened intently. From a distance they could hear a faint cry:

“Help! help!”

“It is Joe!” ejaculated Harry. “He is in trouble. We must go and see what is wrong!”

And throwing down his line and his fish he bounded in the direction of the cry for assistance, with Fred at his heels.

CHAPTER VIII

WHAT HAPPENED AT NIGHT

We must go back to the time when Joe and old Runnell started away from Snow Lodge to see what game they could bring down for the next meal or two.

“We haven’t any time to waste,” said the old hunter, as they moved along. “In an hour it will be too dark to shoot at a distance.”

“Shall we take snowshoes along?” asked the youth.

“Not worth while, lad. We’ll try those in the big forest over on the mainland later on.”

The lodge was soon left behind, and old Runnell led the way through some brushwood that skirted the base of the hill.

“There ought to be some rabbits around here,” he said, and had scarcely spoken, when two rabbits popped into view. Bang! went his gun, and both were brought low by the scattering shot.

“Gracious! but you were quick about that!” cried Joe, enthusiastically.

“You don’t want to wait in hunting, Joe. Be sure of what you are shooting at, and then let drive as quick as you can pull trigger.”

On they went, and a few rods farther scared up two other rabbits. Joe now tried his luck, Joel Runnell not firing on purpose. One of the rabbits fell dead, while the other was so badly lamed that Joe caught and killed him with ease.

“Good enough! Now we are even!” exclaimed the old hunter.

“Do you think we shall find any large game here?”

“Hardly. If a deer was near by he’d slide away in jig time as soon as he heard those shots. The most we can hope for are rabbits and birds.”

“I see a squirrel!” cried Joe, a little later.

“Watch where he goes,” returned the old hunter. “Ah, there’s his tree.”

Joe took aim, and the squirrel was brought down just as he was entering his hole. The tree was not a tall one, and Joel Runnell prepared to climb it.

“What are you going to do that for?” asked the youth.

“For the nuts, Joe. They’ll make fine eating during the evenings around the fire.”

It was an easy matter to clean out the hole in the tree – after they had made sure that no other animals were inside. From the place they obtained several quarts of hickory and other nuts, all of which Joel Runnell poured into the game bag he had brought along.

“This is easier than picking ’em from the trees,” he remarked. “And that squirrel will never need them now.”

By the time the top of the hill was gained, it was almost dark, and the snow had begun to fall. At this point they scared up half a dozen birds, and brought down four. Joel Runnell also caught sight of a fox, but the beast got away before he could fire on it.

“We may as well be getting back,” said the old hunter. “It is too dark to look for more game.”

“Suppose we separate?” suggested Joe. “I can take to the right, and you can go to the left. Perhaps one or the other will spot something before we get back to the lodge.”

This was agreed to, and soon Joe found himself alone. As he hurried on as fast as the deep snow permitted, he heard Joel Runnell fire his gun twice in succession.

“He has seen something,” thought the youth. “Hope I have equal luck.”

He was still on high ground when he came to something of a gully. Here the rocks had been swept bare by the wind. As he leaped the gully something sprang up directly in front of him.

What the animal was Joe could not make out. But the unexpected appearance of the beast startled the young hunter, and he leaped back in astonishment. In doing this he missed his footing, and the next instant found himself rolling over the edge of the gully to a snow-covered shelf ten feet below.

“Help! help!” he cried, not once, but half a dozen times.

He had dropped his gun, and was now trying his best to cling fast to the slippery shelf. But his hold was by no means a good one, and he found himself slipping, slipping, slipping, until with a yell he went down, and down, into the darkness and snow far below.

In the meantime, not only Harry and Fred, but also Joel Runnell were hurrying to his assistance. But the darkness and the falling snow made the advance of the three slow. They came together long before the edge of the gully was reached.

“Hello!” cried the old hunter. “Was that Joe calling?”

“It must have been,” answered Harry. “But where is he?”

“He wasn’t with me. When we started back to the lodge we separated. I just shot another brace of squirrels, when I heard him yell.”

“I think the cry came from that direction,” said Fred, pointing with his finger.

“And I think it came from over there,” said Harry, pointing in another direction.