Introduction

The author's purpose is a very unassuming one. He aims simply to present to the host of bright American boys a clean, wholesome story of sport and adventure. The Ramblers are a group of five jolly young fellows, who form a club for the purpose of hunting and fishing, but find their plans changed by circumstances.

In the course of their travels, the Nimrod Club, a rival organization, is often encountered. The boys are able to accept the unexpected and often trying situations in which they are placed with a reasonable degree of philosophy. They are disposed to be forbearing, yet are spirited enough to stand up for their rights when patience ceases to be a virtue. This story tells how, in spite of trials and discouragement, they are undaunted, bravely push on, and are finally rewarded by solving the mystery of the many strange happenings that have befallen them.

"The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," and "The Rambler Club in the Mountains," show the members of the club in outdoor experiences that any real live boy will envy them.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

CHAPTER I

THE NEW CLUB

A stout boy of pleasing appearance lay indolently in the shade of a group of willows which fringed the bank of a small brook. It was one of those early summer days when nature is all aglow and the sweet scent of the woods and fields is in the air. On this particular day, the sky was flecked with a few white clouds, which remained almost motionless in the great expanse of blue. A faint line of hills, hazy in the distance, lay to the east, and the undulating country between was dotted by occasional farmhouses.

The stout boy basking in the shade looked to be the picture of ease and contentment. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the chatter of the birds and the musical murmur of the brook, as it joyously babbled along in its course.

"Oh, ho!" he exclaimed, half aloud. "How glorious to think of—no more school for two months; no dry books to make one's head ache, or lectures on the sins of idleness. I call this fine!"

A particularly large and inquisitive bee, buzzing unpleasantly near his head, caused him to shift his position slightly.

"Summer before us," he continued; "boating, fishing and all kinds of sport—it's the best time of the year."

He had closed his eyes, as if in contemplation of the glorious prospect before him, when the sound of a step arrested his attention.

"Hello, Dave Brandon!" exclaimed a cheery voice. "I thought I should find you here."

It was a boy of about sixteen who had stepped into view. He eyed the recumbent figure quizzically.

There was a striking difference between the appearance of the two boys, as the new-comer was lithe and his every movement denoted an active temperament.

"I say, Dave, were you born lazy, or did you acquire it by practice?" he inquired, good-naturedly.

David Brandon yawned prodigiously and stretched. "I don't know, Sam," he answered, with a twinkle in his eye; "but, at the present moment, I do feel most uncommonly like taking a nap."

"I don't doubt it," laughed the other; "but perhaps I have some news that will wake you up."

"Some news, eh?" echoed Dave, with provoking indifference. "Some news—perhaps that Professor Hopkins is going to have a summer school, and wants us to join."

He put on such a comical look of pretended dismay that Sam Randall burst out laughing.

"No, Dave, nothing like that, it's the finest thing. Why I—"

"Must be," yawned Dave. "Say, can't you chase that bee away? It keeps buzzing around my head and wakes me up."

"Yes, it's the best scheme that was ever thought of," continued Sam, without heeding the interruption. "What do you think—"

"That the afternoon will be over before you tell me," said Dave, lazily.

He once more moved a very short distance, this time because the rays of the sun were beginning to creep around the willows.

"Well, listen, Dave," persisted the other, and his voice was earnest; "I'm almost bubbling over with enthusiasm; Bob Somers is going to form—"

"Wish he was here, trying to catch that bee."

"Well, I must say—"

"Must say what?" repeated Dave, with provoking slowness. "It is an awful nuisance to have a great big insect buzzing close to your ear. Aren't you going to chase it away for me?"

"I declare! You seem to take an intense interest in what I am going to say; here I've been waiting all afternoon to find you, and can't get in a word edgewise."

Dave rubbed his eyes, and looked as if he didn't hear a word. "Do you know, Sam," he drawled, "this brook always makes me think of Bryant's poem, 'The Green River.'

Ever read it, Sam? I'd advise you to; then it goes on like this:

"Well, Dave Brandon, I've a good mind not to tell you."

"Then don't," said the stout boy, in pretended anger.

"This is the last attempt I'm going to make," was Sam Randall's rejoinder. "You are certainly not lazy when it comes to interrupting a fellow—now listen; Bob Somers—mind you, Bob Somers, is going to form a club, a hunting and fishing club. I'm in it; so is Dick Travers and Tom Clifton—and you're going to join, of course!"

"A hunting and fishing club!"

Dave forsook his recumbent position and sat up with an alacrity that showed how fast he could move if the occasion demanded. "Am I going to join? Well, I guess so." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, as he again settled languidly on the greensward: "Provided there isn't any hard work connected with it. A fellow can't keep going like a steam engine both winter and summer. Sam, I feel most uncommonly like taking a nap."

"Well, it is just what you are not going to do," declared his friend, emphatically. "I told Bob Somers that we would both be on hand at three o'clock this afternoon to talk the matter over."

"It seems I can never get any rest," grumbled Dave. "I could just lie here all day and listen to the birds. They make me think of the line—"

"Dave Brandon," said Sam, hastily, as he seized his friend's coat sleeve, "get right up! The club is about to be organized, officers elected and—"

"Leave it till to-morrow," said Dave, coaxingly.

"No, sir!"

"Very well, I suppose I'll have to go. It was the bee that made me sleepy, by spoiling a nice little nap."

The stout boy sighed, yawned twice, and then, with exasperating slowness, arose to his feet. "Listen to that brook," he said. "What better music could you want than that? I certainly do like to just ramble around."

"That's it! Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Sam.

"That's what?" demanded Dave, staring at his companion in surprise.

"Hurrah! To ramble around—that's good—we'll call it the Rambler Club!" and Sam gave vent to his enthusiasm by another shout.

"Oh, yes, it's a capital name," admitted Dave. "Come on; what did you make us lose such a lot of time for?"

Sam smiled at this attempt at humor, and the two started off. By means of a rustic footbridge they crossed the stream, stopping to gaze for a moment into its crystal depths. The vegetation along the banks was rich and luxuriant, and, at this point, a low-hanging branch, with its myriad leaves of bright fresh green, was reflected in the running water.

Across fields covered with buttercups and daisies the boys took their way, until a road was reached.

The town of Kingswood, situated in the state of Wisconsin, included among its population some very wealthy gentlemen, and none were more respected than Mr. George Somers, the father of Bob. His residence, a handsome colonial mansion, known as Pembroke Hall, lay well toward the southern end, where most of the fine estates were situated.

The surrounding country formed a charming combination of wildness and cultivation, rugged hills, heavily timbered tracts and long stretches of undulating fields.

As the two boys approached the town, a youth of about their own age, who was seated on the flat top of a boulder just off the road, caught sight of them and stopped idly drumming his heels against the side of the rock. His appearance was rather striking. He had a dark complexion, rich, wavy brown hair and eyes of the same color. A lurking smile played around the corners of his mouth, giving to his face a peculiar, sarcastic expression.

"There's that 'Oh ho' fellow," he muttered; "always reading and reciting poetry when he isn't asleep." He put his hand to his mouth and shouted, "Oh ho!" several times. Then his smile deepened, as he saw the two turn.

"Oh ho! Birdie," he continued, putting all the sarcastic emphasis of which he was capable into the call: "Oh ho, oh ho." If he sought to vex the good-natured Dave Brandon, his effort was in vain.

"Hello, Nat Wingate," greeted the latter, cheerily; "I suppose you wish you were back in school?"

Nat slowly climbed down from his elevated perch, and sauntered forward. "Where have you been?" he asked, rather bluntly. Then, as his eye fell upon a book in Brandon's pocket, he added: "Over by the creek, I'll wager, reading poetry."

"Quite correct," laughed Dave.

"And I'd like to know what good it does you," observed the other. "Laziness is a frightful thing to encourage. Where are you going now?"

"To a meeting."

Nat showed signs of becoming interested, and did not hesitate to declare that he would like to know all about it.

"A club is going to be organized," said Sam Randall, with some hesitation.

Nat Wingate stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaned against an electric light pole and put on a quizzical expression.

"What's the club going to do when it's formed?" he asked.

"Oh, have a good time, hunting, fishing—"

"Well," said Nat slowly, "I wouldn't mind joining myself." His sarcastic expression gave place to an eager look.

Dave and Sam exchanged swift glances. "Bob Somers is managing the whole affair," said the latter; "it was his idea."

A rather curious twinkle shone in Nat Wingate's brown eyes, and for a moment he hesitated. Then he said with apparent frankness: "Well, I guess the club could stand the two of us."

"We don't know yet just what is going to be done," replied Sam, evasively, for, to tell the truth, he was not anxious that Nat Wingate should join.

At this juncture, the two, realizing that they had barely time to reach the meeting place, bade Nat good-bye and started off.

The latter slowly made his way back to the boulder, and resumed his former position.

"They don't want me, eh?" he said, half aloud. "Well, I think I'll have some fun with them yet. It's a soft crowd, and they need to be stirred up."

The thought seemed to give him satisfaction, and he laughed quietly to himself.

Within twenty minutes, Dave and Sam reached their destination. Passing between two ornamental gate-posts, they passed along the broad, graveled road past Pembroke Hall and toward a large barn in the rear. There they found three boys awaiting them.

Bob Somers was a sturdy, brown-haired lad of about sixteen, with pleasant blue eyes and a frank manner. His companions, Dick Travers and Tom Clifton, were lively, keen American boys, the latter being the younger and smaller.

"Boys," said Bob Somers, with mock gravity, as he mounted a bale of hay, "we have assembled here to form an organization, the object of which is to pass the vacation months in as pleasant a manner as possible. Hunting, fishing and camping out will form a part of our enjoyments, which I feel that we deserve, after a hard season of study."

"If only those who have passed a hard season of study may join, I'd better leave," remarked Dave Brandon, comically.

"No, we'll let you in because your natural attainments are such that hard study isn't necessary," declared Bob, with a smile. Then he continued: "And, boys, I propose that this shall be an organization without officers."

"No—no!" came in chorus. "Bob Somers is president."

"Now don't protest, for it won't do any good," said Tom.

"And I elect myself unanimously poet laureate," laughed Dave Brandon.

"I propose that the name of the organization shall be the Rambler Club," shouted Sam, and everybody agreed to this with enthusiasm.

They had scarcely begun to talk in an animated fashion about their plans, when a figure suddenly appeared at the barn door. It was Nat Wingate. He sauntered forward, and his usual rather sarcastic smile broke into a broad grin, when he observed that his presence had created something of a sensation.

"Sam said that you were going to form a club," he began, by way of explanation; "so I thought I'd drop in,—all proceedings over?"

"Yes," replied Bob, pleasantly. But he did not evince any desire to supply his visitor with information.

"From what Sam said, I wouldn't mind joining, myself," pursued Nat, coolly, and evidently enjoying the embarrassed looks of the boys. "It's a good idea."

There was an interval of silence. Then Bob spoke up. "I'm sorry, Nat," he said, quietly, "but it's just a little club that the five of us have formed among ourselves."

"Would one more do any harm?"

"No, only that—"

"Only that you don't want me, eh?"

Nat Wingate's eyes flashed, but his voice betrayed no feeling of anger. He seated himself on an empty box, and continued, with extraordinary coolness: "I shouldn't think that it would make any difference whether there were five or six members in the club."

The others understood Nat's nature well enough to know that he was really amusing himself at their expense. When thwarted in anything, he had a way of making it so unpleasant for those who were responsible that his wishes were often regarded in order to avoid trouble.

But the members of the Rambler Club did not wish to have among them a strife-making spirit, and they firmly but politely declined all overtures.

"Very well," said Nat, carelessly, as he arose; "just as you fellows say—'Oh ho.'"

He stretched, glanced slyly at Dave Brandon and moved toward the door. Then, in a mocking manner, just as he had seen a comedian on the stage do, he bowed and took his departure.

"I suppose Nat will find some way to show us what he thinks of our outrageous conduct," observed Tom Clifton, resignedly.

"Better have him making trouble outside the club than in it," said Bob Somers. "That seems a philosophical way to look at the question. Now, boys, let's talk over our plans."

The afternoon passed quickly, but before Bob was left to himself the Ramblers had decided upon a plan of action, and even selected a site for their first camp.

CHAPTER II

THE BOAT

The idea of forming a club had long been uppermost in Bob Somers' mind. During the preceding year, he and his four chums had spent much of their time together, and the experience proved so agreeable that Bob determined to speak to his father and tell him what he proposed to do.

Mr. George Somers was, fortunately, one of those men who, in spite of a few gray hairs and increasing girth, still remember what it is to be young. He therefore was in full sympathy with his son's plans, and encouraged them whenever he could. In the present instance, the idea of the club and its object pleased him, particularly as he knew that Bob's associates were of the right character. More than once, he had suggested that it would be just as well for him to have little to do with Nat Wingate, though Bob was left entirely to his own discretion in the matter.

The residence of Mr. Parsons Wingate was situated in the northern end of Kingswood. Nat, his nephew, being an orphan, had dwelt with him for many years, and perhaps, just for that reason, the boy's character and actions should be viewed in a charitable light. Mr. Parsons Wingate was a man of perhaps fifty, tall and slender, with a smooth, suave manner and agreeable voice. Many of those who had dealings with him were given cause to regret it, for Mr. Wingate was sharp and not unduly particular as to his business methods. Some years before, he had interested Mr. Somers in a certain venture, and since that time the gentlemen, whenever they met, acknowledged each other's salutations in a cold and formal manner.

Nat Wingate and Bob Somers were classmates in the Kingswood High School, and generally divided the honors between them. For some unknown reason, the former seemed to harbor a most unreasonable animosity toward his rival, and frequently took pains to give vent to it by both words and actions. As is usually the case, he had his adherents, who were glad to stir up trouble, and it was only due to Bob's good nature and coolness that many clashes were averted. Altogether, Nat and his followers managed to make more trouble in the school and town than all the rest of the boys put together.

During the latter part of the school term just closed, Nat, for some reason, had been quite friendly, and Bob Somers was more than willing to forget their differences. But in view of Nat's past conduct and hasty temper, he thought it best that the latter should not be included among the members of the Rambler Club. Several nights after their first meeting, Bob Somers' father received a letter which interested him greatly. Some three hundred miles away, in a desolate region, far from any centre of population, lay a tract of land in the northern part of Michigan, which had come to him as an inheritance from a distant relative. Never having regarded the property as of special value, he had left all matters regarding it in the hands of an agent who resided in the city of Tocono, some fifty miles distant from the tract.

It was this man who had written him, and the contents of his letter had surprised Mr. Somers not a little.

"He writes," said the gentleman, "that he has received an offer which he considers very liberal."

"What is the land like, dad?" asked Bob.

"A rather desolate tract, partly wooded," answered his father. "When I went there, about a year ago, I found that the nearest town, a mere village, is miles away."

"Then why should any one wish to buy it?"

"That is just the question which is interesting me at present," said Mr. Somers, dryly. "Of course the timber may be of value."

"Did Mr. Jenkins state the name of the intending purchaser?" asked Mrs. Somers.

"No! He merely says that owing to the inaccessibility of the land, he might never again receive so good an offer."

"Well, George, I agree with him. Take my advice, and sell it."

But Mr. Somers shook his head.

"No!" he said, slowly. "If it is worth that much to some one else, it is worth the same amount and perhaps more, to me. I shall await further information. It is never well to act hastily in such matters."

But the incident had given Bob Somers an idea, and the more he considered it, the more alluring it seemed. He ventured to confide in Sam Randall, and the latter was so delighted that he turned a few somersaults in the roadway, much to the disapproval of Miss Maria Pringle, in front of whose house they had happened to pause.

That night Bob approached his father on the subject.

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Somers, in astonishment. "You boys take a trip of three hundred miles? Why, the land is situated far from any railroad, you know."

"So much the better," pleaded Bob. "We can have a bully time, and there isn't a particle of doubt about our being able to take care of ourselves. Then, besides, the trip will have an object."

Mr. Somers thought for a moment, and the look on his face inspired Bob with hope.

"It might not be a bad idea," he said, reflectively. "With five of you together, it ought to be safe."

"Of course!" exclaimed Bob, enthusiastically.

"But you know that you may encounter wild animals, and perhaps other dangers."

"We are all good shots," persisted Bob. "That is, all except Chubby, perhaps."

"Who is Chubby?" asked his father, with a smile.

"Oh, he's the 'Poet Laureate,'" laughed Bob.

"Is he to immortalize your trip in poetry?" asked Mr. Somers.

"He scribbles plenty of it. Has a volume of Bryant that scarcely ever gets out of his sight."

"Good for Chubby," said Bob's father. "How would you propose to make this trip—by rail?"

"I'll talk to the fellows about it, and see what they say," replied Bob.

"Let me know at once, then."

"Thanks, dad. I will. We'll certainly have a dandy time."