Chums of the Camp Fire   By: Lawrence J. Leslie

CHUMS OF THE CAMP FIRE

BY

LAWRENCE J. LESLIE

MADE IN U. S. A.

M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

CHICAGO :: NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY

THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY

CHUMS OF THE CAMPFIRE

CONTENTS

I THE FROG HUNTERS 15 II STEVE PLAYS HERO 25 III WHEN DREAMS CAME TRUE 36 IV A PROFITABLE BACK YARD 47 V ON THE WAY TO THE WOODS 58 VI THE TERRIBLE ROAR 69 VII THE QUEER ACTIONS OF STEVE 80 VIII THE MYSTERIOUS HAM THROWER 91 IX "MILLIONS FOR DEFENSE!" 102 X THE WILD ANIMAL TRAP 113 XI TOO TRICKY FOR TOBY 124 XII A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE 135 XIII THE SECRET OUT 146 XIV A PLOT AGAINST THE MISSING LINK 157 XV THE BATTLE OF WITS 168 XVI THE LAST CAMP FIRE CONCLUSION 179

[Transcriber's Note: Table of Contents was not present in original edition.]

CHAPTER I

THE FROG HUNTERS

"How many greenback saddles does that last bullfrog Max shot make, Toby!"

"T t thirteen, all t t told, Steve."

"Ginger! that's going some for so early in the spring season, isn't it? I'd like to get about twenty before we quit, which would make just five for each of us, Max, Bandy legs, you and myself. And seems like we ought to knock over seven more this Saturday afternoon."

"Say, if only we were up in that old Dismal Swamp where I got lost last year, I bet you we could fill a bushel basket with big bullfrog saddles," remarked the third boy, whose lower limbs were a little inclined to grow in the shape of bows and who had on that account always gone by the significant name of "Bandy legs" Griffin among his comrades.

"Well, the less you have to say about that time the better," remarked the fourth of the squad, a bright faced young chap who was looked upon as a born leader, no matter whether on the field of sport as known to the boys of Carson, or in camp, and whose name was Max Hastings; "because you gave us a pretty bad scare the time we had to rush up there and hunt that swamp through to find you. Back up, Steve; easy now, I tell you!"

"Do you see the fourteenth victim crouching in the shallow water, or squatting up on the bank?" whispered the boy who just then held the little Flobert rifle, with which the so called "game" was being bagged.

"Yes, and he must be the grand daddy of the whole shooting match, he's so enormously big. Look at that log lying on the shore, just where the ice pushed it last winter. Don't you see a bunch of grass at the further end? Well, he's alongside that, and I reckon he hears us talking, for he looks wise and ready to plop into the water. Steady now, Touch and go Steve; make sure before you shoot."

Steve Dowdy, though warm hearted, and a mighty good comrade, was inclined to be rather excitable at times, and on this account he had been dubbed "Touch and go Steve," a name that seemed peculiarly appropriate.

"I see the old rascal, all right," he murmured, as he slowly began to raise the little rifle to his shoulder, and take aim; "and let me tell you he's my meat. I've got a dead bead on him right now. Listen, fellows!"